


Sweet Roots

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're twenty years old when you hold your son in your arms for the first time, twenty one when it's your daughter. But your real story doesn't start until you're twenty five.</p><p>Young, single..you're an unlikely hero in every sense of the word, and you know the majority of the world wouldn't even grace you with that title, but you don't care about the world.</p><p>You care about your kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I considered writing this type of fic using Blaine as my main character. In my head, he’s mixed, and I figured there aren’t a lot of fics out there that really touch on that and it’d be interesting to explore. I decided against it because I felt uncomfortable writing about the issues of being of Filipino descent/white passing. I still wanted to write a fic like that, though, so I picked Jake. I was inspired to tell the story from his mother’s point of view by the fic A Long Road Ahead by smithie_speaks. 
> 
> However, my story is about a black, single mother raising two children. One is mixed, the other is not. I tried to pull from things I remember from when I was little, and I tried to echo some concerns I’ve heard my dad express before to my mom. I did my best to do this story justice and I hope you guys like it.
> 
> Warnings: racism, including slurs.

Your son is five when he comes home with tears in his eyes and a bruise forming on his cheek. You try to ask what’s wrong, but he crawls into your lap before you can speak, leaving you with an armful of sniffling boy. You stroke his back until he calms down, singing softly to him, and when you finally stop you realize that he has fallen asleep in your arms.

When the clock chimes eight you consider putting him in his bed and calling the babysitter. You have to work tonight, and it’s supposed to be busy.

Eventually, you decide to stay on the couch, holding your child close. 

It means you’ll have to cancel your date with your mom for this weekend, but there’s no way you can leave your son.  
_

The next day, when you’re making lunch while your children sit in the living room watching some weird cartoon, Jake wanders into the kitchen. He tugs nervously on his shirt as you move around him, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“What’s up, buttercup?” You ask when he doesn’t say anything, turning away for a moment to start chopping up some apples.

He’s quiet for so long you think that he’s gone, but then he speaks in a voice that he always uses when he knows what he’s about to say might get him in trouble.

“Mommy...what’s a nigger?”  
_

You wonder how elementary schoolers learned that word.  
_

You want to hurt whoever taught it to them.  
_

Sometimes, when you are out at stores with your children, people will stop by to smile at them. Their eyes are always kind (you pay close attention to people’s eyes; you can tell so much about a person from them), mouths always turned up in a friendly smile as they look back and forth between your children. You know that some of them wonder how they can possibly be related with such differences in color. You know they don’t understand how it all works out, but you never offer to teach them.

Whenever those people stop by, their eyes always rest on Jake, and their smiles grow wide.

“He’s so cute,” they all say. “He’s gonna be a lady killer.”

They never bother to speak to your daughter, and you’re always tempted to push her forward.

“Look at her,” you want to say. “Isn’t she cute, too?”

But you know the answer, so you never do.  
_

Your daughter is five, kneeling on the floor between your legs while you braid her hair when she lets out a sigh that sounds too big for her little body.

“Sigh like that again, Straudia, you’ll blow yourself away,” you tell her.

She doesn’t laugh, like you wanted. Instead she twists her head around, and you’re about to remind her to stay still for the fifteenth time when she says, “Jake’s got nice hair. And Angeline, at school, she’s got real pretty hair. When am I gonna get nice hair, Mama?”  
_

“You need to get those kids out of that town,” your sister tells you over your weekly coffee. “It’s not good for them.”

“Mary,” you sigh, swinging your legs back under the table so you can face her head on. Leaning forward, you think of how to best put it, before deciding to just be honest. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

She scoffs, waving her hand like it’ll brush away the facts of your life. “Oh, shut up, Tanisha. You know you can stay with me.”

“Wouldn’t Junior mind?”

“Fuck Junior,” Mary says with the sudden ferocity you’ve come to associate with your older sibling. “You’re my sister. You’re more important to me than some lazy ass man, okay? You wanna stay with me, you can stay. Junior can sleep on the fucking street corner.”

In spite of yourself, you feel the corners of your mouth tug up in a small smile. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

She snorts her disbelief, but thankfully stays quiet.  
_

You really do think about it.

Truth is, there’s nothing left for you in this town. Neither of your kid’s fathers are in their lives, and it’s not like you couldn’t find a job waitressing somewhere else. Lord knows Mary would easily be able to find you a job with better hours, maybe even better pay.

Deep down, you know it’d be easier for your kids.

Maybe you would be poorer, if Mary couldn’t help you find a new job, but you know that while your kids are picking up on the stares they get around town, they’re not perceptive enough to notice money shortages.

_

You’re too scared to move.  
_

Mary is disappointed in you.

She never says it, but you have learned to read the harsh lines of your sister’s face. You think of explaining to her why you can’t move, but every reason you came up with now seems too flimsy when you linger on it.

Finally, you manage to choke out, “I just can’t.”

“Won’t,” Mary corrects softly, placing money on the table as she stands to go. “You won’t.”  
_

When Straudia comes home crying because a group of girls called her dirty you feel disgusted with yourself.  
_

You’re busy, rushing to get you and your kids out the door, when Jake suddenly announces that he wants to get his hair cut. Pausing in what you’re doing, you turn to look at your son, whose thick, black curls are hidden under a heavy hat.

Jake hates hats.

You stare at him for a few moments before forming your mouth around one simple word.

“Why?”

Part of you wants to point out that he’s proud of his hair, and has always loved to flaunt it's height and difference when out of the house, but you don’t. 

“I just wanna cut it,” Jake shrugs.

You bite your lip for a moment before quietly asking, “How short?”

“As short as I can.”  
_

When they cut Jake’s hair, you pretend you don’t see him watching each piece fall.  
_

Your children are being crushed by this town.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks into the new school year and already you’re called to the school, except this time it’s Straudia sitting on the bench outside of the principal’s office. Her face is hard as she stares at the ground, swinging her feet back and forth. When you arrive, you want to yell at her, and make her confess to her crimes, but you know now isn’t the time. So, you wait.

After minutes have passed, Straudia looks up with eyes that are so heavy you want to scream. 

“They called me names, Mama,” she says, looking away from you and back at her new white sneakers that are now scuffed with dirt. “They called me names, so I pushed them.”  
_

You don’t ask what they called her, because you know.

And it hurts.  
_

Later that night, you flip through old photo albums, pausing every time you come upon your children’s class pictures.

You try to pretend that it takes a minute to find them among the sea of faces, but in reality, it takes you less than a second.

They stand out so much.  
_

The sad thing is, sometimes, everything is okay. 

You can never forget the little things that are building up, preparing to explode, but you can at least take your children out and enjoy their company. You can walk down the streets and hold Straudia’s hand while Jake pretends he’s too old for that, and you can tell jokes and laugh and their eyes will shine like children’s should.

But, eventually, the weight is always back on their shoulders.

And the light in their eyes...it always dims.  
_

You wanted to surprise your son.

You know that he’s been doing much better in school. You haven’t made a fuss, because Jake gets embarrassed when people make a big deal out of anything he does, but this deserves a reward. 

You stand outside of his school, looking up at the sun as it shines warm on your skin, waiting for the bell to ring. Ideas of where to take the kids are running through your mind. It has to be someplace Straudia will enjoy, otherwise she’ll complain the entire time, and you really don’t want to deal with a crabby eight year old today.

You’re still in the middle of thinking when the sound of the bell cuts through your thoughts. Grinning, you turn to face the school, knowing that your children will be so surprised to see you there. You’ve been so busy with work lately, trying to keep the apartment, and you were scheduled for a shift today, but your friend had been nice enough to cover for you last second. It might mean having to ask your mother for a little help again, but you know that you can pay her back.

Children pour out of the school like a herd, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. There are so many that it’s hard to keep track, and they all become one big blur as you watch them go by. You almost miss Jake, standing with Straudia by the doors. You raise one hand to call to them, but you stop when you realize that Jake is talking to someone.

For a few moments, you watch, feeling happy that your son has finally found a friend. He’s always been prickly and quick to anger. Making friends has never been easy because of that.

It’s when the biggest kid reaches out and shoves Jake in the chest that you realize what’s going on.  
_

You are on autopilot the entire way up the hill.  
_

“Fuck you!” 

Jake’s yell brings you back. 

“Shut it, mutt,” one of the kid sneers and you wonder how bad it is to want to smack a child across the face.

One of the other kids opens his mouth, and you can see the word forming on his lips. Half of it is out, left to linger in the air when you suddenly grab him by the shoulder.

“Go home. Now.”  
_

Straudia tells you they’ve been teasing Jake for months.  
_

Jake doesn’t say anything the entire way home.  
_

All hopes of having a fun evening are gone when you unlock your door.

Jake tries to shove past you, but you grab his arm as he walks by. “No, hey, I wanna talk to you,” you tell him.

He pulls himself out of your grip and turns to face you with a twisted expression on his face. There are tears in his eyes, but they don’t fall as he looks at you with his hands curled into fists at his side.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing happened,” Jake hisses.

“Straudia sa-”

“Straudia doesn’t know anything,” Jake snaps, cutting you off. He looks past you, glaring at his sister. 

Normally, you’d yell at him for speaking to you like that, but there are times where you know it’s best to check your tongue.

“Jake...we really should talk,” you reach out for him.

He steps back, shaking his head.

Neither of you speak for the longest time. It’s like a standoff, except you know it really isn’t you that your son is trying to fight.

Finally, Jake blinks, and the tears shining in his eyes begin to fall down his face.

“I hate it here.”  
_

You spend the night holding your children like they are babies again, watching stupid reruns of some stupid show before you finally work up the nerve to call your sister.  
_

_You called this number, you know who it is. Leave a message for Mary at the beep._

“Mary...this is Tanisha. I, well, I don't know how to say this. But...God...do you still have room for us?”


End file.
